Conquest
by Criterion
Summary: Hogwarts students wrighting very bad Naruto fan fiction? Itachi and an unknown doctor having an epic battle on the Quidditch field? How do wizards take care of a Pokemon infestation? - not a crossover, it's true! -  forgive me if my humor is terrible
1. The Psychic

Conquest

[A Harry Potter Fan Fiction]

By Criterion

Chapter One

The spoon hovered motionless in the air, levitating one meter over the floor. The metal began to twist and bend as if it was merely tin foil. His mental dexterity had improved, the matter flexed and molded without much resistance. The silvery gray surface pulsed copper, first slowly, minutes passing between the times it changed from gray to copper, copper to gray. The pulse grew faster until only seconds passed, and then it was too fast to see the difference. It was now a color about halfway between gray and copper. The spoon gave a last gleam before defiantly sticking to a bright copper. The floor had disappeared from under him. Concentrating too hard on the spoon's transfiguration must have drawn all his concentration from the remaining fragments of reality and channeled all of his energy into the tiny fragment that constituted the spoon.

Slowly he pulled the crushing force of his mind from the spoon and detail began to leech back into the darkness. The center of the floor was sturdy oak, with a red umber varnish, its color spread from the center and climbed up the walls in tendrils, each causing its own fractal of tendrils. The ceiling was drywall painted white that eventually met the snaking tendrils of wall that inched upwards. Large holes throughout the room began to fill with furniture and glass; two windows stared out into the sable streets cut with messy imprecision by the glare of street lamps and windows of other souls that remained awake during the night.

The windows of his room were blinded by cataracts and almost black with dust. The furniture was not in any better shape. A metal bed with a stony mattress lay pressed against the wall, and a grimy nightstand was placed about fifteen centimeters from the bed. The red glow of a lamp was the only thing illuminating the room save the street lamps outside. The only other things besides the scarce furnishings were the twisted copper spoon that had bounced under the bed and a spider web on the right side of the wall opposite the two windows.

A sharp rapping stirred him from his mind's wandering. Pushing his consciousness past the windows, he saw a bird franticly trying to find purchase on the smooth window and windowsill. Walking to the source, he opened the window to allow the creature inside. Greedy cold rushed in before he closed the window. The bird was a demonic raven with pupil-less red eyes and putrid black feathers with touches of silver at the tips. It fluttered to the scrap of floor farthest from the man.

The man had short white hair, and he wore simple white garments, the shirt of which held a cobalt circle inclosing a smaller crimson circle. The bird scratched the ground tentatively before moving. In one short flap of its wings the bird morphed into a greasy person with unruly gray hair and a black cloak.

"You really need to put a door into your room."

"I could kill you," the man whispered. "You're weak; you must now give me a reason not to murder you on the spot."

"Because I have a bargaining chip, Moonstrike." The man stiffed at this last remark. With a cold smile, the man called "Moonstrike" stepped up to the other and spoke.

"That was my old alias, what do you have up your sleeve, Marcus?" Standing this close together Marcus could see the milky eyes of Moonstrike staring blindly at him. "You aren't trying to invoke my _nostalgia_, are you?" Three long, thin scars were cut across each of his eyes, marking two hexagrams.

"We need your abilities." Moonstrike lowered his smile to a thoughtful glare. "Of course, the reward would be substantial, but if you refuse—"

"Who's 'we?'" Moonstrike cut in.

"Moth and group thirteen, I'm just a messenger. Anyway—" Marcus stopped mid-sentence. He became very pale and stiff. "I have to go; here is the offer, come to the hideout when you've made your decision." Marcus threw an envelope at the feet of Moonstrike. Then he took three steps to the widow, pulled it open, and transformed back into the raven, flying off into the dark night in one motion.

Moonstrike gave one stiff, hoarse laugh. _Are they ignorant enough to use the old hideout? _He stooped down to pick up the envelope. After closing the window, he sat down on the bed and began to open it. Inside were three pieces of paper and a small badge with the number "13" enclosed in a crimson circle. Thirty years ago reading these pages would have been impossible, but he had learned new tricks since his vision had been stolen. Carefully, he began feeling out for the weak wavelengths of light that should be emanating from the lamp and bouncing off the pages.

_Hm…this isn't good._ The pages contained the mission, the reward, and the retaliation that thirteen would take if he refused. He would have to go to the hideout to see what Moth was up to. Everything seemed to be falling apart, but for the group…they must have put together all of the pieces already.


	2. A Shadow

Conquest

[A Harry Potter Fan Fiction]

By Criterion

Chapter Two

The night was just settling onto the earth. The heat of the day was rising from the ground, licking at every thing daring to tread across the sweltering concrete. Ramming through the flames of heat waves was a man, coolly walking through the desolate streets. The street lamps gave off an eerie illumination that contorted and shot erratically through the darkness as the man passed. Only a few windows contained any suggestion of human habitation. The rest were closed up tightly, lights off, waiting in anticipation for the night to recede back into the cracks of hell.

The man stopped suddenly. He turned to face an old pub, and slipped inside without so much as jingling the small bells strung across the door. Inside was dark, the windows were tinted so much that even the street lamp light had been strained out.

"So?" A piercing voice broke the silence. "Have you come to a conclusion?" The voice seemed to suck the life out of the air, replacing it with the dry stale vapor that clung to corpses.

"Yes, I have," said the man, looking up to the ceiling. Hiding in the shadows, another man was standing on a rafter that was once the dividing line between the pub and another upper room. "If you think that I would agree to such an abominable action your memory of me has been twisted in that demented head of yours!" Moonstrike tightened and unclenched his fists.

"Now, now," said the man in the darkness. "You're in a very tight dilemma, aren't you?" He sneered these last few words, giving a jubilant chuckle. "Take the assignment or all these poor, inky weaklings get erased from existence!" The chuckle was replaced by a high-pitched screeching laugh.

"Yes, but you've overlooked one miniscule detail." The dark mass shifted weight uneasily. "The assignment is 'assassination,' but the target wasn't disclosed in the letter. Not only that, but you also told me to come to the old hideout, not even a gang with a leader as ignorant as you would allow operations to continue in a location that everyone that wishes your destruction knows about." Moonstrike left these statements to settle in the darkness.

"My theory is that you've called me out of hiding because _I'm_ the target. Is this true?" A hiss shattered the unbroken silence.

"Well, so much for getting your guard down. You're quite the soldier, always alert, always suspicious, and always clever. You were one of the _possible_ targets. The group decided to take the others, but enlist your help, then when all the others had been taken down we could decide whether you were an asset or a liability." The form projecting these words slunk down to the floor to meet Moonstrike's blind gaze. He wore a lose cloak that made a rustling sound when he moved "But, you're no wizard." The creature gave a devilish smile, pulling, from under some clothing or other, a long, thin twig. The twig was quite strait with a few knots speckled randomly around the surface. Moonstrike only stood and smiled at this shadow creature's pitiful attempt to frighten him.

"Simon, honestly, you of all people should know that you aren't going to assassinate me with a _wand_. You were in my class when I was teaching "New Magical Theory," weren't you? I would just redirect the energy of any spell you cast somewhere else. The threads, Simon, have you forgotten the threads!" Simon lowered his wand for a moment, contemplating. "The threads of magical energy that you tap into, have you forgotten them, false wizard."

"I'm not a false wizard, old fool. I'll be able to beat you even without my wand!" The wizard sheathed his wand back into the folds of his cloths. Letting the light hit his right hand he revealed a pentagram tattooed on his palm. "See, I've been dabbling in a little alchemy. In a little time, I'll be just as good as you! Oh, and my name's _Moth_ now, you fossil."

"Hm, well, if we're getting names strait, please call me Dr. Mattheau. Also, if you think that ridicules attempt at alchemy is worth me even lifting a finger, you'll have more trouble than you can shake a stick at!" Moth wanted to laugh at the Doctor's terribly outdated jargon, but he knew that Mattheau had the stuff to back up those claims. Slowly Moth began to circle Mattheau. He was buying time, trying to find a way past the old man's defenses.

"Why would you call me a false wizard? I always had perfect marks in all my classes, never missed a day of school either." Mattheau could sense the uneasy waver in his voice. Moth's body was trembling.

"I can see things that most wizards could not imagine dreaming of, lest see for themselves. I can see how you draw the magic from the threads surrounding your body, then forcing the loose magic into incantations and spells. That's very sloppy work, in my opinion. You don't have a significant reserve of energy, the proper threads through your wand, or the most effective method of magic execution, which is _pulsing_, of course." He said this so matter-of-factly, it could have been just another lesson to his students. "How did you become leader of the group, anyway? They could easily destroy you, but of course all of them are _dead_."

"Not you."

"Don't feed around the bush, I feel them. Lucas, Katharine, Antonio, and Judas are all in the city." Dr. Mattheau crossed his arms. "What have you done?" The last four words that slipped from Mattheau's lips fell out in a whisper. This time Moth did not bar his laughter, he let it scream from his lips and bound around the room in echoes that lasted for almost half an hour.

"You think I'm such a pitiful wizard? Well, how's raising people from the _dead_ for power!" Mattheau did not change his expression a fraction.

"Did you use their original memories and everything?" He said this almost as if encouraging a young child to talk about his project.

"Absolutely, every trick, potion, or charm that they ever learned is at my disposal." The boy was quick to gloat about his work.

"There's another minute detail that you missed. If you had not slept through "New Magical Theory: the Soul" then you would have known that the actual person that has died will never come back, if you can supply the energy for the person's memories, if you happen to have them, to infect a host and turn it into a robot at the caster's command. You didn't resurrect people; you resurrected a disease. What's more is that the memory, along with the energy the mixture is called 'spirit,' will begin consuming the biological energy of the caster when the host's becomes too low." Simon was weary to believe much from this old man, but he was very wise. The only awkward part of this situation was that the two of them were enemies currently.

"We're all going insane on this scrap of land, aren't we? This forsaken city has no hope, does it?" Moth seemed genuinely frightened.

"This scrap of land has no hope, but the people on it do, unless they are murdered by a vicious criminal like you." Simon knew exactly what Dr. Mattheau meant. Cold shivers snaked up his back, putting his hairs on end. "And, we don't need to blindly sacrifice innocent people in order to get back home." Simon scowled hard at Mattheau.

"They don't _have_ to be sacrificed? They don't _deserve_ to live! The filthy mug—" Dr. Mattheau let out an enraged roar. Dashing strait for the wizard's neck he slammed the creature into the back wall in an iron chokehold.

"You disgusting disease, those poor people are being slaughtered by a lunatic. Your psychotic rein is destroying everything that you once stood for! All this destruction and decay is for the whims of a madman." Simon's wand reappeared. He waved it desperately around. All was silent. "Do you think that I would allow you to summon my friends to serve as you puppets? Do you think that I would allow any magic to slip from your fingers, no matter how small? You are a sick—" Simon was making a strange gurgling noise. Suddenly Mattheau dropped his grip from the man's throat, backing away towards the door.

"Die, why won't you freaks die?" Simon was now franticly waving his wand in vain. The air remained quiet. "Screw you and your demented friends!" screamed the powerless wizard. He crouched down, putting his right hand on the floor. "Now die already!" More silence came from his renewed attempts.

"It's no use; I've already clotted the veins of current circulating in this area. Also, don't push them too far, or else the energy you're trying to use will be drawn from your own biological energy." The Doctor gave a small chuckle. "You _should_ be using a reserve of energy from within yourself, much more dependable. Plus, energy drawn from within you can't be clotted." The crouching figure scowled again, this time trying to think of the best course of action.

Simon began to laugh, a hearty, true, laugh. "The great invincible Doctor does have _one_ weakness, now doesn't he?" A small metallic click whispered through the room, the squire of a larger _bang_ that rocked through the room. The round sliced out of Simon's cloak and ripped through the flesh of the psychic's left arm, almost even with his heart. A _plink_ sounded behind the Doctor as the round ricocheted off the concrete wall. Blood dripped from the wound, staining his robe, but he didn't seem to notice it.

"Shooting from the hip? I suppose that you gave some attention to class, using a non-magical item like a gun. Had it been a sword I probably could have deflected your attack. Had it been a magical item, then I could control it. But, the sonic speed of a bullet is to fast for the neurons in my brain to receive the—" another bang rocked through the room. This time it embedded in Mattheau's left shoulder. Still, he seemed to ignore the wounds. "–gun firing, and then stop the bullet from hitting me. But, it's just long enough to deflect them away from my head and heart." A third gunshot rang through the air. This time it veered sharply to the right and shattered a window. "What pitiful attempt! Trying to get me to over-compensate is of no use, I'm not that slow." The gun clicked a fourth time, but no shot issued from its muzzle.

The assassin completely exposed the gun, pulling the trigger in vain. "Y—you're going to kill me?" Moth's laughing was now replaced with tears.

"Unfortunately, yes."


	3. Nyan Cat's Intervention

Conquest

[A Harry Potter Fan Fiction]

By Criterion

Chapter Three

The Doctor circled the building. It was relatively small, so it only took a few minutes to complete. At regular intervals, he stooped and plucked small knifes out of the walls. After one circuit, he had gathered five. They were very simple instruments, a blade dulled with age attached to a handle. A slip of paper was attached to a small hole at the end of the knife. These were much too rare to waste so casually, recovering them was his only option.

He didn't want to go back into the pub; the scene there was too ghastly even for his cold blood. The matter didn't even hold any consequence. He had to find the rest of group thirteen, or else. With their master slain there was nothing barring the creatures from ravaging the city in a mindless rampage. The fool had to raise _them_ from the dead! Not only might it cost hundreds _their_ lives, it has already cost Simon his own life.

Before leaving the building Mattheau heard a rustling. He did not have to turn in order to see the gruesome form standing behind him. Simon, his corpse clinging to life, had limped out of the building. Blood was rushing from deep gashes ripped throughout his body. Half his face had imploded, and his entire maw was removed. Fragments of his jawbone were still embedded in the wall inside the pub. Most of his bones were splintered shooting fiercely through every organ in his body. The shards of bone had tenaciously ripped through his tender tissues.

The creature grunted and moaned as if in agony, but its spinal cord had already been severed along with the other major organs. Being inside the psychic's clot caused regeneration to be impossible, but now that the nodes had been removed the gashes were already being mended. The splitters of bone scattered through the man's body were realigning back into shape.

_Why can't you ever stay __dead_? Mattheau turned about to face the horrific monstrosity that dared approach him. "There are worse punishments than death, Simon." He said to the uncomprehending corpse. "Feu!" Long stretchy tentacles slithered up from the earth. The greasy mass of writhing tentacles was trying to pull the rotting carrion into the abys— But Nyan Cat comes and saves him!


	4. The Muggle Club

Conquest

[A Harry Potter Fan Fiction]

By Criterion

Chapter Four

"What? No, the world of Dr. Mattheau does not have Nyan Cat in it! What are you doing anyway?"

"Your story seemed a little dull, why not embellish it?"

"I say that there should be Pokemon in it."

"No, no, no, no, no, and no

"Or sex."

"NO!"

"Why do you hate Nyan Cat?"

"Why do you hate Pokemon and sex?"

"I don't! I just hate when other people try to drive my stories!"

"You're no fun."

"Do you know what they say about Nyan Cat?"

"What?" The other three said in unison.

"The word around school is that he lives in Snape's butt." The whispering of the fourth student was interrupted by him being abruptly smacked on the back of the head by an unknown assailant.

"Stupid blubbering Hufflepuff dweebs," snorted a familiar voice. "Be thankful you're not in Slytherin, we would have strung you by your nostrils over the common room." A slender pale fellow, Draco Malfoy strode through the hallway talking with his back turned toward the zealous group of fans. Flanking his sides were two thick brutes. Other Slytherins had tried to befriend him, for his father's status of course, but his tendency to bite into any nobody that came around was very deterring. Plus, his habit of acting as if Snape was omniscient was extremely vexing.

"Stew sludge and child of vile muck! Get away demonic infant!" Screamed a tenacious Hufflepuff. "Crawl back into the sewer that you came out of!" The pale child said nothing in return, but did quicken his step a little more, and his two thick thug fellows perspired slightly worse than before.

His friends gave him kudos for his outburst before being absorbed once again into the world of Dr. Mattheau, Nyan Cat, Pokemon, and sex."


	5. House Identity Disorder

Conquest

[A Harry Potter Fan Fiction]

By Criterion

Chapter Five

A pale thin creature, Slyth Burnoke was a reclusive pupil often ignored by the other students. He liked it this way. In fact, invisibility was his most prized achievement, though it meant a very unglamorous life at school. Popularity meant little to Slyth. The skinny child kept mainly within the herd of Fans of various things. They enjoyed all forms of manga, many books, and talked ceaselessly about all forms of movies and video games. They wrote numerous Fan Fictions about various whimsical adventures of brave heroes facing daunting challenges in fantastic worlds either manufactured within their own head or plucked from another's.

Yet these weren't ordinary students attending an ordinary school. Slyth had just started his third year at a most peculiar Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry. The boy was in the same year as one Harry Potter, a very famous wizard that was known for defeating one Lord Voldemort thrice. Burnoke was not in the same house as Potter, though. The pinnacle of his plans to become as transparent as possible was fulfilled when the Sorting Hat had placed him in Hufflepuff. Being thrown in with the "duffers" gave Slyth a kind of inexplicable ecstasy.

Avoiding his siblings was one reason that being in Hufflepuff was such a score. Ivrous Burnoke was just starting her third year at Hogwarts in Ravenclaw when Slyth had been sorted. His other two siblings, Locus and Pocus, were fifth-year twins in Slytherin and Gryffindor respectively. The two were now trying to outdo each other on their N.E.W.T.s (Pocus was one up on Locus, receiving an "E" in History of Magic on last year's O.W.L.s.) Since a bitter rivalry between them caused complete breakdown of any resemblance to peace, Hufflepuff would be the only house Slyth could find solace. The fact that no one actually _expected_ anything from a Hufflepuff was just an added bonus. Unfortunately, Slyth's carefully applied invisibility would begin to fade this year.

Slyth did hold a few friends despite his futile attempt to avoid it. Judas and John were two twins in their first year at Hogwarts, the two were both Hufflepuffs and seen together so often that they were usually referred to as "JJ." Both had dirty blond hair, were leaning toward the heavy side, and wore the same infuriatingly-muggy-gray-just-short-of-black robes around everywhere they went. JJ came to most of the gatherings of fans, but would occasionally skip a day for unknown reasons.

Choice was an unusual case. A dark-skinned witch with almost no magical abilities. A second year Gryffindor, she was continually tormented by others for the steady drain of points from their house she invoked. Some of the other girls would call her "a monkey with a stick" after a particularly large blunder. Tormented and utterly without niche in the Gryffindor house she had sought refuge in the folds of the Hufflepuff flock. The teachers made uncharacteristically lenient accommodations for Choice's "house identity" disorder. (The last case of HID had been around a hundred years ago, when Lord Achea Gnang was placed in Slytherin when he swore he was a Ravenclaw.) No one truly knew why this happened, and, in the case of Choice, no one truly cared. (When asked about its strange decision, the Sorting Hat had simply said, in a dubious voice, "I am never wrong, and it seems even the closest of families have a Black Sheep in them…") Many thought that that position had already been quite properly filled by one Neville Longbottom, but most held their tongue, owing to the fact that Neville had won them the House Cup in his first year.

Her only apparent magical skill rested in potions. Yet, even those grades were deplorable, though not for the reasons one might think. During each class, while the other students, like young Ginny Weasley, were dutifully attempting to replicate the instructions presented by _Magical Drafts and Potions_, Choice had drifted into a land apparently only she could get to. The young witch spent all her time ignoring the textbook and throwing seemingly random ingredients into her cauldron, scratching notes on her parchment, and occasionally giving the cauldron a stir.

During her first year Snape had deducted points from Gryffindor almost every other day as her mysterious mixtures caught on fire, exploded, caused the cauldron to grow fangs and bite other cauldrons, disappeared, then suddenly reappeared on top of some unfortunate student, grew fangs itself and attempted to bite Snape, who neutralized the potion before it could sink its teeth into his head (which he probably could have done to save Colin's concoction from the same fate, which had exploded and smothered everyone with a sleeping potion that was a bit too weak, giving everyone a very ragged a tired look the rest of the day), and otherwise causing mischief in class. She invoked so much of a drain that there was a great debate among students and faculty whether the points should be deducted from Gryffindor or Hufflepuff, considering her very unorthodox case of HID. Snape was quite eager to continue deducting points from Gryffindor as to ensure his own house's success, but even the Hufflepuffs would have been happy just to see Gryffindor get a slight leg up on Slytherin, whom they dearly wished to lose. But, as it turned out, the decision was made for them as a rule, presumably from an extremely ancient Hogwarts rulebook, was discovered to clearly state that the actions of a student may only be punished on themselves, or by removing points from the house _that they were sorted to_, possibly this rule was enforced, as everything else at Hogwarts, by magic.

The ordeal was straitened out as Choice's potion musings had reduced in volatility and now only very rarely had any disastrous effects on the class, and Snape loosened up a smidge, only deducting points if something truly horrific happened.

So was the set up during a particularly glooming Wednesday afternoon as the class of second year Gryffindors and Slytherins filed into the room were Snape sat nearly motionless at his desk, a myriad of miscellaneous pickled and potioned creatures mimicked Snape's form quite accurately, besides one jar's contents twitching slightly.

Snape talked little that class. He called roll, then set them in pairs before retreating once more behind his desk. Colin Creevey was looking especially mousy, small, and frightened, being paired with the volatile Choice, having to share a cauldron with the mischievous partner. Their task was relatively simple, brew a bottle of quarter hour fame. The task, however simple it was for the other groups, now seemed to be an unattainable dream to Colin, who was trying in vain to begin brewing.

"No, wait, Colin," she said in a loud whisper. "We can do this loads easier and loads better than the rest of the class. Just wait a sec' I've got something here…" Colin waited pacifistically as Choice rummaged through her stuff before placing a small book in front of her. It had a modest gray cover, and couldn't have had more than fifty pages. A grubby, crimson title read _Everything We Have Learned About Potions, by Synonymous_.Colin could see her scribbling something in the book, then vigorously scanning the pages before turning back to him. "Alright, we just need a little powdered meekness mixed with rotten intentions…" She was eyeing Colin with a piercing glare. "Well, I have the intentions, now we all we have left is…" She drew her wand out of the folds of her robes. Colin gave a weak squeak as he looked about the room, wondering when this particularly nasty session in the dungeons was going to end.


End file.
